Graham's Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 2, February 1852

Name: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 2, February 1852
Author: Various

Various

Literature -- Periodicals; Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals

hea-ah and pull down my pants! Really, ah, they-ah have risen until they
are quite uncomfortable.”

Thus much for the present division of our task, from which we draw the
deduction that every exquisite has his troubles like plainer people. One
day he may be in agonies because his cravat is not decently tied. On
another he may be in torture because, notwithstanding all his efforts,
his legs seem thick. These and other ills are occasional misfortunes. It
is not considered by him that although these griefs come once in a
while, he is at all times in manners a puppy, and in mental strength
only a ninny.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           A FILIAL TRIBUTE.


                         BY CORNELIA B. BROWNE.


    We thank thee, Father, for thy kindly teaching;
      It makes our “desert blossom as the rose,”
    When a fond parent, exile over-reaching,
      His arm of counsel round as gently throws.

    Daily we’ll ponder, as a sacred pleasure,
      These calm outpourings of a tender love:
    Nightly our prayer shall be, this precious treasure
      So to receive, as to be thine above.

    Thou heedest, then, that three swift lustres, wending
      O’er Time’s winged course, have made me soberer now;
    That maidenhood with infancy is blending,
      To cast a shade of thought upon my brow?

    As the meek virgin merges in the woman,
      Aid me to drink of waters more divine;
    To purify the needful, earnest, human,
      And lay soul-offerings on a holy shrine.

    Upon this day, that sealed her blissful union,
      Our mother bids us offer thanks to thee:
    Permitted foretaste of that high communion,
      Where all earth’s exiles are supremely free.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: THE DEATH OF THE STAG.]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         THE DEATH OF THE STAG;


                     OR THE TALBOTS IN TEVIOTDALE.


                           BY FRANK FORESTER.


                            [SEE ENGRAVING.]

                 The stag at eve had drunk his fill,
                 Where danced the moon on Monan’s rill,
                 And deep his midnight lair had made
                 In lone Glenartney’s hazel shade;
                 But when the sun his beacon red
                 Had kindled on Benvoirlich’s head,
                 The blood-hound’s deep resounding bay
                 Came swelling up the rocky way.
                                      Lady of the Lake.

“Tayho! Tayho!”[1]

And straightway to the cry responded the long-drawn, mellow notes of the
huge French-horns which were in those days used by every yeoman pricker,
as the peculiar and time-honored instrument of the stag-hunt, the _mots_
of which were as familiar to every hunter’s ear, as so many spoken words
of his vernacular.

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Graham's Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 2, February 1852

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